William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

mind, but his imagination raced, painting picture after picture. Dinah had loved Lambourn almost obsessively. She had thought too well of him, set him on a pedestal that perhaps no man could remain on. Everyone has weaknesses, things over which they stumble. To ignore that, or deny it, places a burden too heavy to carry from day to day.
    Love accepts the scars and the blemishes as well as the beautiful. Sooner or later the weight of impossible expectation produces evasions: perhaps only small ones to begin with, then larger ones, as the burden grows heavierThe hansom was barely moving in the traffic. It was raining harder now. Monk could see the drops bouncing up from the road, and the water swirling in the gutters. Women’s skirts were sodden. Men jostled one another, umbrellas held high.
    Had Dinah felt as if Joel had betrayed her? She had made an idol of him, only to discover he had feet of material even less pure than clay. Had the murder of Zenia Gadney been her revenge on a fallen god?
    Or maybe that was complete nonsense? He hoped so. He wanted profoundly to be wrong. He had liked Dinah, even admired her. But it was inescapable that he must now find out.
    He leaned forward and redirected the driver to take him to the Britannia Bridge, where Commercial Road East crossed the Limehouse Cut and became West India Dock Road. He must visit the shops again: the general hardware store, the grocer, the baker, and all the houses along Copenhagen Place.
    By the time he got there the rain had stopped. There were a dozen or more children playing hopscotch on the pavement when he turned the corner from Salmon Lane into Copenhagen Place. A couple of washerwomen were standing with huge bundles of laundry on their hips, talking to each other. A dog was rooting hopefully in a pile of rubbish. Two young women haggled with a man beside a barrow of vegetables. A youth with a cap on sideways strolled along the edge of the pavement, whistling. It was a music hall song, cheerful and well in tune.
    Monk hated what he was about to do, but if he did not test the idea, the possibility of it would haunt him. He began with the washerwomen. How would Dinah have dressed, if she had come here looking for Zenia Gadney? Not fashionably. She might even have borrowed a maid’s shawl to conceal the cut and quality of her own clothes. Who would she have approached, and what questions would she have asked?
    “Excuse me,” Monk said to the washerwomen.
    “Yer found ’oo done ’er in yet, then?” one of them said aggressively. She had fair hair, bright where the pale winter sun shone on it, and a heavy but still handsome face.
    He was startled that they knew who he was. He wore no kind of uniform. But perhaps he should have expected it. He had learned thathe was memorable. His lean face, the cut of his clothes, the upright stance, and the manner of his walk marked him as unusual.
    “Not yet,” he answered. “But we’re closer to knowing who might have seen something.” That was an evasion of the truth, but it did not trouble him at all. “Did either of you observe a woman around this area, looking for Mrs. Gadney, maybe asking questions? She would be tall, dark hair, maybe dressed quite ordinarily, but with the air of a lady.”
    They both looked at him narrowly, then at each other.
    “Ye’re soused as an’ ’erring,” the older of the two replied. “An’ ’oo like that’d be lookin’ fer the likes of ’er, then?”
    “Someone whose husband she had been taking money from,” Monk replied without hesitation.
    “There y’are, Lil!” the fair-haired woman said jubilantly. “Told yer, din’t I? She weren’t up ter no good. I knew that, an’ all!”
    Monk felt his throat tighten. He would so much rather have been wrong.
    “You saw her then?” he asked. “A woman looking for Mrs. Gadney? Are you certain?”
    “Nah! But I ’eard about ’er from Madge up the street.” The woman jerked her head to indicate the direction. “She were in ol’ Jenkins’s shop when it ’appened.”
    “When what happened?” Monk said quickly.
    “When that woman were ’ere askin’ questions about ’er that got ’erself killed, o’ course. In’t that wot ye’re asking? Tight as a newt, she were, so they say. Poor cow.” She looked at Monk narrowly. “Yer sayin’ as it were ’er wot cut that other poor mare ter pieces an’ left ’er on the pier? Listen, she might ’a bin off ’er ’ead, but one woman don’t do that ter